


Before You Know

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Crushes, First Kiss, M/M, eve is very unhelpful, mild crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 15:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6084666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He knows," Q moaned, voice slightly muffled from where his face is buried in the pile of wires. "<i>He knows.</i>"</p><p>Or, Q's crush on Bond is getting out of hand</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before You Know

**Author's Note:**

> Cherrygoldlove made an amazing fanart of this: http://cherrygoldlove.tumblr.com/post/140175018218/what-does-he-want-q-whispers-to-turing-as-he
> 
> please go check them out!

"He knows," Q moaned, voice slightly muffled from where his face is buried in the pile of wires. " _He knows_ "

  
"Oh, come on," Moneypenny, ever the cruel one, only sounds amused at his despair. "It wasn't that bad." She doesn’t even have the courtesy to sound sympathetic and Q had the sudden, irrational urge to kick at her brand new patent leather stilettos.  
  
"Wasn't that bad?" Q said incredulously, lifting his head a little to see Moneypenny sitting at the edge of his desk, legs swinging and watching his tirade with inappropriate glee. "It's not enough that the whole bloody Q branch and Tanner knows, now the real object of my infatuation has to figure it out?"  
  
Moneypenny giggled.  
  
Q tried to glared at her, which was hard, what with his glassed being crooked from where he slammed his face on the table.  
  
It has been three minutes and twenty two seconds since Bond left Q branch with the SmartBlood nanochip under his skin and an impossible request that Q had agree to complete and Q is _mortified_ .  
  
Because here's the soul crushing, utterly embarrassing, undeniable truth: Q has a crush on Bond.  
  
A crush, Q insists to himself every time he tries to control his blushes and heart rates, because it will most certainly go away and will in no way affect him or his work. He will remain professional and ignore the way he stutters and act like a tween whenever 007 visits Q branch.

 

Which, so far, has been entirely far too often for Q's nerves. Bond has taken to lingering around his work area in the period after M's death, peering and meddling and sometimes bringing him tea, and Q refused to admit just how excited and light headed he feels each time. He blames it on the excessive caffeine consumption and the sleepless nights creating prototypes.  
  
Of course, one of the hazards of working with a bunch of painfully intelligent and talented people is that they will most definitely deduce one's crush on a certain 00 agent before you could say “I do not!”, and then proceed to snigger and tease whenever said 00 agent shows up. Case to point: Q definitely did not miss the way the technicians peel away from their projects to peer at where Bond was promising to send postcards, shaking their heads and grinning wildly while the agent’s back was turned. Hell, even Tanner, usually oblivious to office politics, have started to take notice.  
  
Threats to corrupt computers and wipe out credit ratings have done nothing to stop them, so Q had determinedly slogged on with the air of a parent who knows that their child won't eat their vegetables, but keep trying to hide it in their food anyway.  
  
It's unacceptable, the way they behaved three minutes and fifty eight seconds ago. Q had peeked over his shoulders several times during his and Bond's conversation to see his staff exchanging glances and making kissy face, something that Bond is surprisingly impervious to. Tanner had looked faintly bemused by it all, but wisely opted to keep his mouth shut.  
  
The worst part was when he handed the watch over to Bond, hyper aware of the way his colleagues are elbowing each other and pointing behind their backs. Q had spent a week designing and testing it; he knows Bond's taste in accessories to know that he would accept it. It wasn't a conscious decision to create - more of a need to protect, a way to say "stay safe" in the most subtle way possible. Why the other Q branch members think that it's practically a proposal is lost to him.

 

The alarm on Q's desk rang, signaling the end of five minutes since the embarrassing debacle. Q sat upright, straightened his glasses, and took a sip of cold tea, ready to start coding like a maniac again. Eve, who finds all sorts of excuses to pop down to Q branch just to chat with him, looks bewildered.

 

“Break time’s over, Moneypants,” he said briskly, pulling up a window and typing in a long string of numbers. “Go away now, I’m busy.”

 

Eve shakes her head, hopping down from the desk and ruffling Q’s hair, grinning as he huffs and shakes his head. “You’re heartless, my dear. Absolutely unfeeling. With a giant cavernous hole the size of your crush where your heart should be.”

 

Q glares at her over his glasses. “Out,” he said firmly. “Or I’ll stop hacking into Amazon and getting you free deliveries.”

 

Eve smiled lazily, saluting Q and sauntered out of Q branch, her heels tracking a pleasant staccato beat against the linoleum floor, leaving him to quietly question his sanity for temporarily dampening 007’s signal on the SmartBlood programme.

 

***

“Q.”

 

Q startled from where he was squinting at the screen, trying to make out the words on a badly enhanced picture. Bond had somehow managed to sneak up behind him and is now holding a mug of tea in Q’s favourite cup - the one with ‘Watch out, I’m a nerd’ in binary code, not the scrabble one that Eve got him just after he was appointed Quartermaster - all the while with an odd smile playing at the corner of his lips. He set the mug down gently and took the opportunity to lean against Q’s chair, all casual nonchalance and intent.

 

Q isn’t the head of department because he lacks balls, and 00 agents are tantamount to lions playing with their food. There had already been three people who resigned solely due to the 00 agents, and most of them usually ran gibbering to Medical by the end of their employment. He had gone through what would be considered serious workplace harassment, threatened, experienced heavy flirtations, and routinely ignored on the comms. Each time, he only ever schools his face into something deadpanned, plant his feet, and delivered a scathing line or two. Then he sat back and watched disaster rain down on those who refused to comply to his orders.

 

The point is, Q knows how to handle himself and the bullshit agents like Bond throws at him on a daily basis, earning the respect and large berth of space from them.

 

So when he hears Bond’s voice rumble in his ear, soft and seductive, asking how he’s been, Q is able to answer “Fine, thank you.” in a measured tone, voice steady and crisp.

 

Of course, his flaming cheeks are the only thing that gave him away.

 

And Bond, sharp as a whip, noticed, pouncing on the fact with a hum of satisfaction and the lightest touch on the back of Q’s neck, making him shiver.Q could feel Bond smiling, the bastard must be having a field day with this, as the light touch graduates into a slow caress down his arm. Turning his head, Bond plants a soft kiss at the back of Q’s ear, nuzzling a little. “In that case,” he said, voice deliciously husky. “Have a great day.”

 

“Well, um, yes, right,” Q cleared his throat, trying for indifference, hating the way the spot Bond kissed still tingles and warms him. “Is there anything else you'd like?”

 

Bond stood back smugly, waiting for Q to spin around in his chair. “I'm leaving tomorrow,” he said evenly.

 

Q blinked. “Ah.”

 

Bond continues to look at him, face genial and pleasant, hands tucked away in his trousers pockets.

 

Q pushes his glasses up his nose. “Have a safe trip?” he tries again.

 

Bond seems to deflate and Q feels a stab of panic as he nods and turns to go. Wildly, he searched his brain for the correct response.

 

“Might I remind you of the drop in coverage, 007?” He calls out, unable to bring himself to let Bond leave in that state. “I hope you won't be doing anything wayward in those 48 hours.”

 

Bond continues to walk ahead calmly, voice reverberating through the empty Q branch as he speaks. “I won't make any promises, Q.”

 

Desperate measures then. “Do come back in one piece, will you? I much prefer you whole than in a body bag. I still need someone to fetch tea and coddle me.”

 

It does the trick. He sees Bond's shoulders droop and his stance relax as he reaches the door, one of his rare genuine smiles aimed at him. “I'll try my best.”

 

It's only after the soft clip of polished shoes have faded and when he is surrounded by the hum of machines once more did Q pluck off his glasses, kneading the bridge of his nose.

 

Too close; too terrifyingly close for comfort. It's a statement of neediness, of want, calling the agent back while sounding like a child with their puppy love. Q idly wondered how long it would take to design a robot to dig and hole and then dump him and his sullied reputation in it.

 

For now, at least, he'd have content himself with tracking Bond through SmartbBlood and ignore Eve's jabbing whenever she comes by.

 

***

After it was all over, with the bridge destroyed, C dead, Blofield caught, and Bond off with a blonde beauty, Q figured he might as well indulge himself and arrive at the office early to work on a few personal projects.

 

He was settling down with his first cup of tea, computer whirring beneath his fingertips and the steam from his mug curling under his chin, when the elevator shuddered to life.

 

Q halted his work, peering curiously from the safety of his screen. There were no reports of cars being brought down to Q branch so early in the morning, and the place is pretty well guarded, so he could rule out any hostile attacks.

 

And then the lift opens, and he registers the image of Bond, in his impeccable suit and the casual tilt of his hips, all the hard lines of his body sanded down. He looks more relaxed than he has in days, _years._

 

Q hears himself call out Bond's name in confusion, feels his legs scrambling to meet him, stopping himself just before they touch.

 

“I thought you'd left.” It's a statement, not a question. He deserves the retirement; field work is a young man's game, and Bond could no longer risk calling himself as such.

 

Bond, of course, has no intention of returning, or if he did, it'd be a while before he does. He doesn't seem like the type to live the normal life, in an uptown home with a partner, no mission to complete, no one to shoot. It all sounds terribly boring and anticlimactic, and Q tells Bond as such.

 

Bond only smile enigmatically, pocketing the keys to the Aston Martin and tracing his eyes down Q's form. “Perhaps,” he said idly, moving towards the newly restored car. “But this old dog isn't quite done yet.”

 

Q doesn't understand what he means, but then again, it's probably not meant for him. It will hurt, missing Bond, but the ache will fade sooner or later. Crushes always do.

 

But for once, logic and reasoning doesn't seem to sooth the drop in his stomach as the car purrs to life.

 

“Stay out of trouble, 007,” Q says, bending over to meet Bond's eyes through the open window. “I hate not being able to be the voice in your ear when you need it.”

 

“Oh, don't worry about me Q,” Bond reaches up, leather wrapped fingers lightly tapping the tip of his chin. “I'm sure I'll manage.” His voice rasps like stubble on skin, low in the rumble of the engine, private enough for Q to feel weak in the knees.

 

Pushing himself back, Q forced his legs to carry him to his worktable. “Goodbye then, 007.”

 

He doesn't hear a reply, and he doesn't dare to look up until the squeal of tires are gone.

 

***

Q finally went home at three in the morning, as per usual, stumbling to the Tube and then staring in bewilderment at the closed shutters before barely remembering to call for MI6’s chauffeur service.

 

He was fumbling for his keys, mind still absent mindedly fixed on a set of calculation for a jet propulsion when the tip of his shoes nudged a vaguely humanoid shape.

 

Q squints, eyes blurry from exhaustion and the dark, realising with a growing sense of horror and fatigue laced hysteria, that it was Bond. Lying on his doorstep, a set of lockpicks and Q branch’s all access key card in his hand. Probably incapacitated. Maybe dead.

 

No, not dead. Q could still see the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the blue of his sweater contrasting sharply against his red welcome mat.

 

Dragging a 00 agent who is probably twice his weight proved to be more difficult than he thought, and the resultant exercise left him panting and awake, sweat dampening his shirt as he flops down on the couch, eyeing the prone form of Bond suspiciously.

 

It doesn't make sense. But then again, everything Bond does doesn't make sense. He's the kind of man who prefers to do things in his own bewildering, incomprehensible manner, and then leave you to figure out his motives. It's illogical and irresponsible and Q absolutely hates it.

 

But he could never resist a good challenge, so instead of agonising over the significance of Bond's appearance, Q got up for a shower, deciding to do his worrying while being clean instead.

 

***

Twenty minutes later and still drawing up an unsatisfying blank, Q steps out of the shower expecting Bond to still be out from the five million volts of electricity delivered by his specialised home security system. So when he pads into the living room with nothing but a towel around his waist to see Bond slumped on the couch stroking a purring Turing, he yelps and tries to scuttle back to his room.

 

Bond grins at the sharp sound he makes, smile growing wider as a splotchy blush starts to spread down Q’s chest. “Well, hello there.”

 

Q makes a mortified sound of distress,  edging back into the living room, having thrown on a pair of pajamas pants and hastily pulling on an old hoodie. It’s not that Q is ashamed of his body, rail thin and deceptively fragile, but the fact that it was _Bond_ , well, things are just a little different.

 

Q lowers himself down on the sofa, gunning for a neutral expression that probably comes across as suspicious, awkward silence filling the air. It seems like a good time to address the issue of Bond being here and breaking into his home, but instead he blurts out, “Would you like some tea?”

 

Bond looks amused as he runs his hand down Turing’s body. “I’d love some, thank you.”

 

Turing purred, butting his head into Bond's hand, tail lashing with contentment, opening his eyes into slits as Q jerkily moves from the sofa to the kitchen. Hopping down from Bond's lap, he trots after him, making figure eights around Q’s legs as he meows hungrily.

 

“What does he want?” Q whispers to Turing as he scoops out a portion of kibble. “Why is he here? And why specifically my house?”

 

Turing answers with a curling of tail before turning his attention to his food.

 

Q gives him a fond scratch behind the ears as he braced himself to stand. “I just wish he'd tell me outright what he wants.”

 

“Maybe if you ask nicely, I will.”

 

Q almost squeak in surprise at the low, smooth tone so close to his ear, startling a little and barely missing Turing’s tail.

 

Bond is unnervingly close, his smile drawing crow's feet at the corner of his eyes and sleek lines of his sweater hugging his body perfectly. It's hard to reconcile this version of Bond with the calculating eyes and blood stained hands, but Q doesn't think he'll be able to resist Bond either way.

 

He recovers fast, instinct kicking him into saying “How will I know if you're telling the truth?” before he can register them. He holds Bond's gaze for a beat, then two, before turning to fill the kettle, the intensity of blue too bright to face down.

 

Bond crowds behind him, movements fluid and relaxed, the old wolf in his environment, the lightest pressure of fingers on Q's hips making his breath catch as he continues to watch Q with that same odd look in his eyes.

 

He waits until Q sets the kettle to boil before answering. “When I said I left,” he says quietly, voice intimate alongside the tinkle of Turing’s collar hitting his bowl and the bubble of water. “I didn't mean you.”

 

His stare never wavers, never dip into coy glances beneath lashes, a stark deviation from the oft seen seduction techniques behind Q’s screen. Only open honesty and the devil may care attitude, so magnetic in presence, it makes his breath stutter.

 

“Oh.” Q murmurs. It's exhilarating, knowing the object of your infatuation have similar affections towards you.

 

They stand there, comfortable in their silence, neither making a move for the next sensible step. It would seem foolish to fall into a fit of passion now, not when there are moments like this to steep in and savored. Besides, they still had to wait for the kettle to finish boiling.

 

Later, curled up on the couch, Q tentatively situated by Bond's side, leaning ever heavier against him, with Turing spread and purring on their laps, Q wonders just how easy it all seems to be able to bed the most dangerous asset of all of bloody England. He sets down his empty mug and reaches under a pillow to rummage. Bond, already dozing in the warmth and company, wakes and follows his movements with curious eyes.

 

Throwing Bond a sharp smile, Q flicks a hidden switch, revealing a Glock and a key card. Bond hums his approval. “The kitten has claws after all.”

 

Q scowls. “Say that again and I'll replace your bullets with blanks.” He plucks out the key card and hands it over as nonchalantly as he can. “I'll program your fingerprints and facial structure into the system,” he says as Bond examines the card with a seriousness reserved for funerals and meet the parents sessions. “After what happened just now, I'd hate to think what happens if you tried to break into my bedroom. I much prefer you alive than dead.”

 

Bond finally looks up, sincerity in his eyes lighting a slow burning fire low in his belly. “I'll be sure to make full use of it.”

 

They stay like this for a while, cramped on the couch and slowly drifting in and out of sleep, too lazy to move to a larger space. When Q wakes, Bond is long gone, but there is breakfast and tea on the table, which rounds up the situation so nicely that Q can only laugh and shake his head.

 

***

Bond comes by more often now, before missions and after missions, bruised and bloody and tired.

 

Q hates the times when he'd step into his apartment and flick on the lights only to see Bond drinking himself into oblivion, skin gray and the dark bruises under the faded blue of his eyes turning his face hollow. He'd patch him up with no comment, allowing Bond to curl up next to him once bed, slow breathing and strong arms around his waist lulling him to sleep, waking bleary eyed in the middle of the night to sooth the nightmares away.

 

Strangely enough, they've yet to kiss. Oh, there were plenty of opportunities, but all of them seemed inappropriate and unwise. Q wonders if it's part of Bond's eccentricity concerning him.

 

Other such eccentricities include him bringing gifts back to Q whenever he is out of the country on missions, little kitschs from all parts of the world. He'd drop by Q branch with pastries or tea over whenever he's around, holding Q’s favorite mug while walking down to the bunker like it's the most natural thing in the world and placing it on Q's desk, quiet satisfaction shining on his face as Q flashes him a grateful smile. Oftentimes, he’d stand behind Q’s desk, silently unobtrusive, careful eyes following Q as he directs and codes, setting his skin alight with invisible touches.

 

“Well, looks like things worked out after all.” Moneypenny is back again, this time in a slinky red number that is  definitely against workplace regulations. She's trying to work out a new lipstick cum tranquilizer dart that Q recently came up with. “All your whining was for nothing.”

 

Q sighs, but does not refute it. “May I remind you that if I had not been ‘whining' about my feelings, you'd have next to naught in terms of entertainment? And please try not to prick yourself with that.”

 

“True,” Eve concede. “But I want you to remember the horrifyingly undignified time when you were stuffing cookies in your face while moaning about how handsome Bond is and how much he's a pain in your arse.” She graduates from fiddling with the lipstick to slashing it in wide arcs.

 

Q moved out of her range. “You're evil,” he grumbles, grabbing a screwdriver and peering into the innards of a radio. “I had almost purged that from my memory. You just had to bring it up, don't you.”

 

“Bring what up, darling?”

 

Q lets the screwdriver slip from his grip, rolling his eyes as he turns to meet Bond. “Bring up the way you drool in your sleep. What's it to you?”

 

Bond is dressed as casually as he could, navy suit and crisp white shirt, no tie, with his left arm in a sling and the right holding a new mug of tea. “And here I thought you were just starting to warm up to me.”

 

“Oh, he is,” Eve said delightedly, devilish smirk on her face. “Did you know he used to have a file title ‘for 007’ where he writes down ideas for prototypes just do you? And that he makes high pitch noises and recount everything to me the minute you leave Q branch?”

 

“Shut up Moneypants,” Q muttered. “I hate you and you are are no longer my friend.”

 

Bond looks mildly thrilled. “Really?” He smiles, gentle and happy, setting the mug down and leaning to press his lips on Q's forehead, dragging his lips down to whisper in his ear. “Well in that case, I'll see you later, darling. And then maybe we'll find out just how much of a pain in your arse I can be.”

 

He leaves them both, Eve with an amused little smile and Q blushing and dazed, head tilted as he stared at the tight stretch of trousers fabric.

 

In the corner, a group of Q branch members giggle and collect bets. Q vowed to sign them up for the next workplace relations workshop and resigns himself for the impending gossips.

 

***

In the end, it's Q who initiates the kiss.

 

It's nothing significant, no big moment with fireworks and sparkly banner with the words ‘Just Kissed’ in glitter and sequins.

 

They were spending the night in, doing horribly normal things like ordering take out and eating it in front of the telly while watching some forgettable show. Bond was recounting a mission in Vietnam where he accidentally fell from a balcony and hung by his fingertips from the fifth floor, resulting in him flashing everyone in the vicinity.

 

Q had half his mind on the show, sprawled as he was on the sofa, toes wriggling on Bond's lap and Turing purring on his lap. He's pleasantly buzzed from the half bottle of wine he dug up in the cupboard and he feels more comfortable than he has in days. He concentrates on the way Bond looks at him like he's special, like he's important, and the way Bond's fingers curls possessively around his wrist, rubbing soothing circles and tracing, mouth unusually lax and expressive.

 

He feels the inevitable percolation of affection and warmth rising up to his chest like champagne bubbles dancing on his tongue, and revels in the ease of his laughter. He remembers thinking, “I might just be a little in love” and “I think he might love me back too”. He thinks for a second, mind swirling in the midst of calculations and numbers. Seventy percent chance of his prediction being accurate, sixty three percent chance that Bond would like to do this again, twenty eight percent chance he'll fall asleep tonight on the sofa, and twelve percent chance that Bond would push him away if he initiates a kiss.

 

So he did.

 

He catches Bond off guard, who was still in the middle of his story, hands gesticulating wildly. It was more of a smashing of face than a kiss, with teeth clacking and noses getting in the way. Q could feel Bond freeze, muscles tensed and ready for attack, and Q pulls away, trying to put as much distance between them, disappointed.

 

That is, until Bond pins him down with an unreadable look, bunch his fingers in his hoodie, and pulls Q forward to try again.

 

And oh, oh. So _this_ is what all the fuss is about. Q is by no means a virgin or inexperienced, but he knows now why people would sell out companies and loved ones for a kiss. The wet slide of lips, the skilful tangle of tongue, the gentle coaxing of give and take, Bond kisses with painful passion, and Q is helpless to resist.

 

When they surface for air, Bond still chasing the taste of Q’s lips, Q could only giggle helplessly, body vibrating with each staccato breath. Turing meows, indignant at being squeezed, jumping off his perch and stalking off into Q’s room.

 

Bond ran a ticklish finger up the ladder of his ribs, making him squirm and laugh harder. “What's the matter?”

 

“You.” Q grins, petting Bond flanks greedily. “You and me. You're ridiculous. _I'm_ ridiculous.”

 

Bond nuzzles the hollow of Q’s throat and bit, making him keen.  “Are you referring to our dancing around the other?”

 

“Too stubborn to voice what we want.” Q agrees. “So many lost opportunities.” He lets his hands cup around Bond's arse for effect.

 

Bond bucks his hips, the bulge in his jeans grinding deliciously against Q’s thigh. “Then I suggest we make up for the lost time.”

 

Q huffs a softer laugh and boops Bond's nose, just because he can. “Yes,” he lift his arm to pull the hoodie off himself. “Let's.”

 

***

Q branch threw a party the next day, completed with cake, copies amount of alcohol, and a very obnoxiously loud banner with ‘Congratulations on shagging 007’ in capital letters. Q had no idea how they found out but he very much suspects it had to do with the tiny Wall-E replica he received in last year's secret santa. He also finds that he doesn't much care.

 

“You know,” Q said conversationally one  evening as he traces a finger down Bond's scarred chest. “I never thought we'd work out.”

 

Bond hums, nuzzling the small area behind Q’s ear, a weak spot that makes him melt and purr. “Why, my dear. Such little faith.”

 

Q shook his head, snuggling deeper into Bond's arms. “Two of nation's best,” he mused. “And the most dramatic of them all.”

 

Bond huffs a laugh of agreement. “Of course. But then, isn’t that the point of it all?”

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea came up when I was rewatching Spectre and Q's twitchy behavior was kinda suspicious to me so instead of rationalising it like a normal person, I decided to jump to the weirdest conclusion. And then I couldn't just end it at them kissing in the flat after Bond broke in the first time because, really, Q is just not that kind of boy, so it escalated and snowballed until logically (at least to my mildly deranged self), Q initiates a kiss. Q branch, of course, after being thoroughly done with their shit, celebrates. 
> 
> As usual, kudos and comment are appreciated!  
> [tumblr](myskittlesexploded.tumblr.com)


End file.
